FREE today through Saturday 3/6-3/8 on Amazon! Don't miss your chance to grab this new release at a 100% discount!!
Dr.
Priscilla Hackling finds herself thrown back into the murder
investigation of her fiancé, Trey Whittington. While she was a suspect
three years ago, she’s now working with the police to find the murderer,
Egyptian artifact trafficker, Zarka El-Din.
During
a sting operation in Siwa, she and Agent Donnie Barnes are drawn to
each other but Priscilla, overcome by personal ghosts from her past,
decides a relationship isn’t possible.
Priscilla
realizes she’s the bait in the ruse and uncovers others involved with
El-Din. Will she and Donnie reconcile and unravel the reason behind
Trey’s death before El-Din kills her, too?
http://amzn.to/1ghfRAv
Excerpt:
Priscilla
Hackling chiseled and brushed away the crusted dirt of thousands of
years when voices echoed above her. One she recognized, Rayhan, her
trusted assistant. They grew louder, closer, but she chose to ignore
them. She glanced at her chronometer—three o’clock. Her descent, right
after day break, into the yawning mouth of the aperture had occurred
without incident and brought her to the colorful glyphs which ran in
vertical strips on a wall deep within the cavern. She studied them with
care, assured she’d found a sealed compartment, the final burial place.
She had worked for months at Sakkara just outside of Cairo, a section of
the great necropolis of Memphis, the old kingdom capitol. In early 2010
the Department of Antiquities and the Cairo Museum had gained access to
this area, the tomb of a lesser scribe of Unas. The stark, summer
sunlight shifted across the opening of the dig.
The
argument above ground intensified. She sighed, stored her tools in
their worn, leather case, and walked across the expanse of the
antechamber. She reached the ladder and, as it did every time, a quick
flash played in her memory. The day she climbed out of a dig in southern
Egypt, where Trey lay in a pool of his own blood, the twelve-jeweled
breastplate of the priest torn from his fingers.
“Priscilla. Priscilla, can you come topside?” Rayhan’s urgent voice met her ears. She stood frozen on the first rung.
What
could go wrong now? Her permits were in order, she had clearance from
the Egyptian government—in fact, in a way worked for them—but this
entire dig had been trouble. She gripped the worn wood and crawled out
into the unrelenting afternoon heat. Rayhan stood not fifteen feet from
her as he argued with a uniformed official and others roped off the
area. From her experience, this dig would soon be over.
Priscilla
took a patterned bandana from the hip pocket of her knee-length cargo
pants and wiped her face and hands, then jammed the red fabric into her
satchel. She extended her hand to the middle-aged officer.
“Priscilla Hackling.” She removed the hat from her short, strawberry blonde curls. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“I’m Captain Johnson.” He shifted his cap to shade his eyes and pointed toward the dig. “We need to close this project.”
Priscilla scrutinized the officer. Egyptian descent. English last name. “Johnson?”
“My father was English.”
She
bit her bottom lip to squelch a smile. “At least we have that in
common.” She waited for him to comment and when he didn’t, she
continued. “The permits are in order. I’m working for the museum.”
“I know who you are, Dr. Hackling.” The captain crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs into a defensive stance.
Anxiety
fluttered in her chest. Why now? An important discovery lay under her
feet; countless hours of work lost. “Then why are you shutting down my
project? I’m right on the precipice of a major find.”
“I’m not. I’m preserving it. I’ll have guards on site day and night. No one will touch your dig while you’re needed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?
This is my work. The museum has invested a large sum of money into the
project hoping I’d find out who this scribe was and his importance to
Unas. I’m certain the tomb is the architecture of Imhotep.”
“As
I’ve said, the dig will be untouched. We’ve reopened the investigation
of the murder of your fiancé, Trey Whittington. I need you to come with
me.”
Priscilla
gasped. An unexpected jab twisted in her chest. Trey, the remarkable,
handsome man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life with died three
years ago. He had been a part of her since they’d met at the University
of Cairo. They were both from England and in love with Egypt and each
other. With limited success she’d moved on. She had to or she might as
well have been buried with him. She’d told the authorities everything
then. Why were they dredging it all up again?
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.